Revelations
by daymarket
Summary: When presented with a difficult choice, Murtagh discovers who he truly is.


**I have had this idea for quite a while, but only recently got about to actually typing it up. If this works out fine, I want to try Eragon, Arya, etc. Hopefully you'll like it. XD**

**So. Please review.**

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**Character: Murtagh**

**Author's Notes: Set right after **_**Eldest.**_

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It was raining outside, the soft patter of rain providing no relief from his thoughts. Murtagh lay in bed, staring at the canopy aimlessly, running the cover through his fingers again and again.

"_Join me, Murtagh… We were friends once. We fought together."_

With a soft oath, Murtagh sat up, clutching the blanket to his chest. Standing up, he slid open the balcony windows, letting the cool night air rush over him. It was a relief on his clammy skin, but did nothing to relieve the pit of anxiety in his stomach.

The ruffle of pages caught his attention. Murtagh turned his head unwillingly, his eyes falling upon the object that he had been trying so hard to forget—a book, bound simply with leather, preserved with magic through the ages as to _shove_ it into his face, to open the door wide…

_Thorn?_ Murtagh called, playing for time as he kept his eyes fixed on the book.

There was no reply except for a soft hum, a light murmur of dreams as Thorn slept. Murtagh sighed, running his fingers through his hair—Thorn was exhausted, wearied from his exertions of the day before. He deserved to rest.

_This is my choice_, he thought grimly, bending down to pick up the book that he had found earlier that day. _Mine alone._

Galbatorix was in no shape to question him now, but tomorrow he would want to know—_Why did he let Eragon go?_ By finding the barest of loopholes, exploiting the least of mistakes—didn't he have faith in the Empire? Didn't he see that it was his _duty?_

"Duty," Murtagh said aloud to the darkness, his hands resting lightly on the book. His fingers flipped through the pages, coming to a halt on the well-worn edges of the pages that he knew so well, had almost _memorized_ already from the countless hours spent over it. Across the top, some ancient author had written in the ancient language_, Kvatha Nir'acya ei Saerin_.

_To release from bonds of names._

"I can be free," Murtagh whispered softly, staring blindly out the window. It would be painful, it would be long, it would be an ordeal beyond any he had undergone before. To execute it in its entirety, he would have to find another powerful magic user to complete the ritual where he could not. But for once, the door was open, bringing forth that word that he'd never thought he'd hear—

_Free_.

He swallowed painfully, looking down at the worn pages of the book, his mind racing. In order to complete the spell, he would have to leave tonight, before Galbatorix's state of mind calmed enough to open Murtagh's mind and discover the information. In order to find another magic user, he would—well, how many strong magic users were there? He knew no elves…Eragon, then? At the—

His thoughts abruptly halted, skittering to a stop.

The Varden...

"_You could do so much for the Varden…With us, you would be praised and admired, instead of cursed, feared, and hated."_

A bitter laugh escaped his lips before he could stop it, sharp and acidic. The Varden hated him even before they laid eyes on him, just for his heritage. Eragon's pretty words to the contrary, the Varden would never accept him. _Ever_. Especially after the battle of the Burning Plains, where so many of their kinsfolk had died.

At least he knew Galbatorix, and Galbatorix in return had given him the twisted trust that he could only give. Where Galbatorix had expanded his abilities, the Varden would limit him. In their eyes, he would have to be kept under control, for risk that he would turn against them. And wouldn't he, ever? After all, what had _they_ done for him?

Abruptly, Murtagh's mind spun back to that day, in what seemed eons ago. His first glimpse of how truly fragile Galbatorix was under the charisma, a broken, shattered indication of the lost child underneath—

He had entered Galbatorix's study that afternoon, in preparation for his lessons. At first, he had thought the room was empty—no candles were lit, no sound could be heard. It took him a moment to hear a soft, broken gasp from the room in the back, punctuated with the fragmented sound of tears.

Lighting a weirlight and entering the room, he'd frozen at the doorway to see Galbatorix curled into a ball, crying as a lost child might. It took him yet another long, agonized moment to discover that Galbatorix was asleep, trapped in his own nightmares. When the emperor had cried out a name—_Samiel_—Murtagh finally understood that Galbatorix was weeping for his dragon. His soul's companion, his friend in ways that no human could ever be—lost.

How long he stood there, he didn't know. But as he tried to move, tried to break himself free out of his paralysis—Galbatorix awoke. Rider looked at Rider as shame and horror flooded Galbatorix's features. To reveal such weakness was unthinkable to him, to show that kind of emotion—he was supposed to be the emperor, after all. Aloof and powerful and unfeeling.

They never spoke of that incident—Murtagh had fled the room, slamming the door behind him. But it was only later that Galbatorix began to teach him the greater secrets of magic, opening the path to spells of such power that even the elves didn't know them…

_Are you mad?_ a voice in the back of his mind burst out. _This is the man that tortured you, that killed Tornac, that _enslaved_ you. And you're defending him? You would _stay_ with him?_

Murtagh gritted his teeth, shaking his head hard. _The empire itself isn't flawed, just Galbatorix. Who's to say the Varden will be any better? _he snapped. _At least I know Galbatorix. What's that saying—always the enemy you know than the enemy you don't? _

_So you've truly become loyal to Galbatorix, is that it? Like a groveling dog, kicked again and again only to come back every time? Like your _father?

That stung. Murtagh clenched his hands into fists, wishing that the voice would just shrivel up and die already. _I am_ not_ my father! _

_Murtagh?_ Thorn asked sleepily. _Why are you talking to yourself?_

Murtagh stopped abruptly, hearing the voice of his dragon cut through his growing fury. _It's nothing,_ he said at last. _Go back to sleep._

_Anything big I should know about? You sound agitated._

_I'm—it's nothing, Thorn. Go to sleep._ He sighed, and added, _You'll need it._

_Mmm, yes, what with Galbatorix tomorrow ripping into us for Eragon go_. There was a quiet, ruminative pause, and then Thorn said, _Why did you do it, anyway?_

Murtagh dropped heavily down onto the bed, staring a hole into the velvet canopy. _I don't know._

Thorn sighed. _Well, what's past is past, I suppose. _

Murtagh was silent for a moment. _Thorn?_

_Yes?_

_Do you think I did the right thing?_

Murtagh could feel Thorn shifting, laying his head on his paws as he considered the question. _Well,_ Thorn said at last, _I wouldn't have done it, but I'm not you. I don't know Eragon, or Saphira. Not personally. I have no bonds upon them, no ties of loyalty. I would've taken them back here, if anything than for self-preservation._

There was a pause as Thorn scratched an itch, and he continued. _But you do. You've known them, traveled with them. I like to think that you made the choice you did because you listened to your heart. To your morals, and your code of honor. _Mentally, Thorn shrugged. _In the end, I think that's the best anyone can hope for._

_Oh_, Murtagh said at last.

_Yes, oh,_ Thorn said with tired amusement. _How quaint. I give the longest and most philosophical speech I've ever made and all you can say is 'oh'. _

Murtagh smiled faintly. _What would you like me to say, then?_

_Mmm. _Thorn yawned. _A good night would be nice. That is, if everything is all right._

_It's fine,_ Murtagh said softly. _Go to sleep. I know you're tired._

_You're so perceptive,_ came the sleepy murmur, and then Thorn was asleep. Murtagh laced his fingers behind his head, thinking.

The heavy weight of the book lay on his stomach—a path, a choice. On one hand—Galbatorix. On the other hand, the Varden.

Choices.

Murtagh sat up in bed, running his hands over the book. He should…well, never mind that. He had decided. Maybe if circumstances were different. Maybe if…

"_Brisingr_."

The word hung in midair, settling slowly as the book burst into flame. The pages curled as the ancient lore burned, blazing the archaic secrets into dark, closed ash.

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**Please review with opinions, etc. **


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